


Screams in the Night: Night Terrors

by CaliBDiamond



Series: Just Malfunctioning [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Gen, Night Terrors, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-04
Updated: 2014-09-04
Packaged: 2018-02-16 03:27:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2254125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaliBDiamond/pseuds/CaliBDiamond
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is how it feels to fear sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Screams in the Night: Night Terrors

_It’s the screech of the door that wakes her. Lifting her head from the cold, grimy floor she’s been forced to rest her exhausted body on for Lord knows how long, she catches glimpses of the hulking figures filing into the room. They’re wearing those damn masks again; she’s never seen their faces. Someone walks over to Jesse and for a moment, she wonders if they’re going to give him another savage beating. Maybe they don’t know he’s dead yet. She does; she heard his breathing give out something like two days ago. The smell in here ought to give it away, really._

_She can hear them talking, but she’s more than certain that they’re not speaking English. No, the language is much harsher; European, probably. She’s too busy trying to scoot her weary body towards the corner of the room to really care. But she’s so tired and weak. They haven’t fed her in days, and the only water she’s had is what gets slid beneath the door in a plastic dish. As if she’s expected to lick it up like a fucking dog._

_Strong hands grasp her ankles and drag her back to the middle of the floor, and Syriana kicks as much as she can. Her voice has long since gone hoarse from all the screaming she’s done during the brutal attacks on Jesse. That sick metallic taste of fear coats her tongue like a bad medicine, and starts to chill her from the inside out. There’s another man coming around to hook his arms beneath hers, and he hauls her back against his chest. Try as she might to fight him off, he manages to get a gag made out of some filthy, musty tasting rag crammed between her jaws. He pulls it tight so it puts an almost unbearable amount of pressure on the sides of her mouth, pressing her tongue down to silence her as much as possible._

_He stinks; sweat and dirty and some kind of rotten sort of filth she doesn’t want to put a name to. He’s talking to her in that thick accent, but she’s too busy struggling to pay attention. A figure in front of her blocks the bright light hanging between the leaky pipes above them and a sharp slap strikes her face, leaving a stinging sensation along her temple and her eye. Try as she might to twist out of the grip of the man behind her, her efforts are futile. There’s a hand grasping what’s left of her filthy tank top, tearing the material as it hauls it up over her chest. At first, she thinks they’re going to rape her. After all, what the hell else would they find her useful for?_

_But there’s a metallic click that echoes in the room and dispels that thought completely. Turning blurry eyes to where she’s caught a glimpse of something shining to her left, Syri instantly starts screaming and begging behind the gag. A knife—one that looks a lot like the Military issued ones her father likes to collect—is gripped in the gloved hand of the man standing over her. It’s worse than what she thought; they’re going to kill her. But they’re not going to be merciful the way they were with Jesse. As much as he’d suffered, the idea of being beaten wasn’t nearly as horrifying to her as being gutted._

_She’s straining against the hold the man has on her, and she can hear her own jaw starting to pop out of place when he yanks the gag hard in an attempt to make her stop. Someone else is keeping her legs pinned as the one with the knife steps over her and crouches. With his face obscured by the mask and the blinding light, it’s impossible to tell if he’s smiling or not. Her chest heaves with panicked breaths as she watches him lower the blade to her skin. The first cut feels like she’s being burned, and she chokes on a scream behind the foul tasting gag. The point of the blade has sunk so deep, she’s almost worried her insides are going to spill out of the incision._

_He stops mid-drag and looks her dead in the eye. They’re blue, she notices, lined with red spidery veins and a yellow tint that suggests he’s a smoker. There are creases around the corners, and something feels almost familiar about them, but she can’t quite place him with all of the panic running through her. He asks a question in a muffled voice. “Does it hurt?” his accent isn’t quite as thick as everyone else’s. In fact, he almost sounds American._

_She wants to spit in his eye and kick him in the crotch until he’s vomiting blood. But all she can do is strain against the hands holding her back and whine. He laughs and with a flick of his wrist, he splits a line through her skin that follows the inward curve of her ribcage. Then another near the hollow of her hip. She can’t even scream; the situation is just far too much for her. Her eyes roll back in her head, the light fading into a dingy grey. There are hands on her shoulders, shaking her. Someone’s shouting in her ear, begging her to open her eyes…_

Her throat feels as though she’s been swallowing mouthfuls of glass. Someone in the apartment is screaming, and she can hear Gabriel barking up a storm. But when she opens her eyes, all she can see is the darkness of the room and the figure still standing over her. The skin of her abdomen is burning hot where she knows the raised lines of scar tissue reside, and she can almost taste the filthy rag in her mouth. Hands reach for her in the dark and she scrambles to get out of the way. The figure calls her name as she tumbles to the floor, then makes a mad dash for the doorway just ahead. She clips her shoulder on the side of the entryway and races towards the bright light.

A thickly muscled arm wraps around her middle, upsetting her burning scars and setting her off into another screaming fit. No matter how hard she tries to fight against the hold on her, the person isn’t giving up. There’s a vaguely familiar voice in her ear, talking in as calm of a tone as it can muster. Slowly, the walls of the slaughterhouse seem to melt away, revealing the lazily decorated walls of her apartment. There’s a blue glow in the corner where her workshop is, and Gabriel is sitting a foot or so away, whining frantically. Taking in a deep breath of air, she no longer tastes the stale, rotten flavor of death and decay.

“Riana?” Michael’s voice startles her when it sounds in her ear, and she blinks the rest of the wet bleariness out of her vision.

“… _fuck_.” Her voice is weak and wobbly like the rest of her, and she sinks back against her brother with another shaky curse. “Fuck, I can’t…” she has to swallow the gravel in her voice. “…again?”

“Again,” he confirms, loosening his hold in favor of rubbing at his face. There’s a spot starting to swell where she’d decked him while he tried to wake her. He had to hand it to her; for such a tiny woman, she sure as hell could throw a fucking punch. Then again, he supposed anyone would be able to hit like that if they were scared enough.

“I didn’t piss myself this time, did I?” Syri shifts away, sinking against the side of the couch and reaching out for Gabriel to come closer.

“No.” Shaking his head, Mike gets to his feet to get her a glass of water. “Pretty sure the neighbors are going to make another complaint again.”

“Fuck them,” she pulls the furry black body of her dog into her lap and cuddles him to her chest. Gabe chooses to sniff at her neck a few times before delving into the usual licking up of the tears on her face. It’s almost routine for them all now; these little episodes are becoming so frequent these days. “The landlord loves me. He won’t kick me out.”

“You should think about taking one of the places—”

“Fuck you.” Bloodshot brown eyes fixate on the soldier standing in the kitchenette, and she shakes her head. “Fuck you, Mike. I’m not living in a S.H.I.E.L.D issued apartment.” God, that’d be like living in a Big Brother house; there was far too much surveillance in those places for her liking.

“It’s an option you’ll need to consider. I’m going back to base in a month.” Handing over the glass of water, Mike moves to sit down on the couch and nurse his bruising eye. Andi was going to have questions for him; he just knew it.

“I can get by without anyone here.” And she  _could_. She’d been dealing with this shit for five years now without anyone else’s help. Having Mike gone would just mean that she might go into work a little less well rested and with a lot more bruises. She couldn’t recall a single time one of these night terrors hadn’t caused her to injure herself in some way. “I’m not a fucking child.”

Mike says nothing as he watches her struggle to get to her feet, and worries she might topple over or trip over her little road block of a dog. He’s hardly surprised when she heads into the kitchenette and turns the coffee pot on. She’d surely pop a few unnecessary Xanax while she was at it and sit like a zombie at the workstation in the corner. But what can he do? It helps her to relax when she works on her projects, and he’s not going to risk her getting even more violent with him. She was still somewhat trapped in the dream—and she would be for a while. These things didn’t just disappear because she regained her wits.

“Go back to bed,” Syri orders, taking down one of the stash bottles of her anti-anxiety pills from the cabinet. Three bars get tipped into her hand and swallowed down before Mike can count them where he sits. She knows she takes too much; she also doesn’t care anymore. “I’ll turn the light off.”

“It’s fine,” casting another look at her, Mike heaves a sigh and turns to lie back down on the couch. “Wake me up if you need me.”

“Mhm.” That won’t happen. Syriana would much rather keep this to herself. And she fully intends to do just that. She won’t risk another fuck up during her mental evaluation this week. She might as well start building up her story for the therapist now. As silence settles over the apartment, Syri leans on the counter and looks over at the lump that is her brother’s sleeping form. Rubbing her shoulder where she’d smacked it on the doorway, she sighs and shakes her head, whispering to the room, “Thanks for not letting me suffer, Mikey. I owe you one.”


End file.
